A Buccaneer at Heart

by Stephanie Laurens

  He swore virulently and didn’t care if she heard; she had brothers—he doubted she’d be shocked.

  Abruptly, he raised his head and met her gaze.

  He wasn’t sure what to say—which tack to take, which was the wiser course to pursue. He was an experienced negotiator, an expert persuader; he could usually talk anyone into trusting him with almost anything, but with her...he felt stumped.

  He was also well aware that while it might be unwise to tell her too much, telling her too little might potentially be worse.

  Telling her anything went entirely against his grain. He compressed his lips against the impulse, but he couldn’t not say, “Promise me one thing—that you will not under any circumstances speak to anyone in authority here. Not at the governor’s office, not at the fort, not at the Office of the Naval Attaché.”

  “Why?”

  “Because at least some of those involved are connected with those offices.” He paused, then added, “The governor’s wife was the one who drugged my sister-in-law. After she was rescued and my brother and she sailed for London, the governor’s wife took her leave. All those here believe she left to visit family, so please, under no circumstances reveal you know otherwise.”

  He’d finally managed to stun her.

  “The governor’s wife? Lady Holbrook?”

  He nodded.

  Her stunment didn’t last long. “What evidence do you have that the Office of the Naval Attaché is involved?”

  This was why he hadn’t wanted to tell her even that much. “We have evidence to suggest the army as well as the governor’s office have been suborned to some extent. We don’t as yet have any direct evidence of naval involvement, but we have to assume it exists—as it well might. In this sort of case, we have to assume we can’t trust anyone until it’s proven that we can.”

  She humphed; to his ears, it sounded irritatingly dismissive. Then she refocused on him. “You haven’t yet told me what your goal in the ongoing investigation is.”

  He hadn’t. He didn’t want to.

  He still didn’t know what he was going to do with her.

  “Are you two ever going to get out?” Dave’s voice drifted down through the trapdoor. “If we’re not headed anywhere else, I wouldn’t mind finding me bed tonight.”

  Saved by the coachman. Again.

  Robert shifted forward and reached for the carriage door—the one opposite the pavement, away from her lodgings. No need for anyone happening to glance out to see him leaving her carriage. The movement brought him closer to the irritating female who, her gaze still locked on his face, seemed intent on driving him to his wits’ end.

  Jaw clenched, he nodded curtly. “I’ll call on you tomorrow—at eleven—and we can continue this discussion.”

  With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the street; with exaggerated care, he shut the door, then stalked into the night.

  Aileen watched him go. For just those seconds, she allowed her senses the luxury of drinking in the sight of all that sauntering masculinity; he had a grace of movement she found unutterably compelling.

  All too soon, he disappeared into the black shadows, leaving her wondering if him making an appointment for tomorrow morning signaled a capitulation—or whether he was planning something else.

  Her bet was on “something else.”

  Drawing in a bolstering breath, she got down from the carriage, bade Dave a good night—then, on impulse, told him to call for her tomorrow morning. “At ten. Sharp.”

  “Aye, miss.” Dave touched his cap. “I’ll see you then.”

  Aileen smiled to herself as she turned and walked smartly through the gate and up the path to Mrs. Hoyt’s front door.

  * * *

  After a refreshing night’s sleep, Aileen awoke to the conviction that Captain Robert Frobisher was the sort of gentleman who would do all he could to curtail her endeavors.

  He might be handsome; he might be compelling.

  He might be an excellent kisser.

  But he was also a man, more, one of a sort she knew all too well.

  With a dismissive humph, she threw back the covers, rose, washed, and donned one of her skirt-and-jacket ensembles in a very pale shade of green. A crisp white blouse completed the outfit. After winding her locks into plaits she then fashioned into a coronet about her head, she felt ready to face her day.

  She went down to take breakfast in the small dining parlor to the rear of the house. Eschewing the hearty porridge, she opted for fruit and cheese to accompany her tea and toast. Her excursion last night had left her distinctly peckish.

  After completing her repast, she exchanged greetings with Mrs. Hoyt, then returned upstairs.

  As she climbed the stairs, she considered what next she might do to track Will. If Frobisher was correct and Will had been taken by those slavers, then perhaps she should see if she could identify in which direction the slavers went when they took people out of the settlement.

  She didn’t immediately know how she might accomplish that, but she could spend the morning in the gardens working out her approach.

  After checking her hair, she settled her straw bonnet over her coronet and pinned it in place, then picked up her reticule.

  The sounds of a carriage drawing up on the street had her glancing out of her window just in time to see Dave draw his horse to a halt before the gate.

  The gate Frobisher was opening.

  She watched him step through the gate, then stride up the path.

  After their encounter in the dark last night...

  Sternly, she quelled an appreciative shiver. Sadly, there was no denying he looked even more impressive by day. The width of his shoulders, the way he walked, plus the air of command he projected all combined to make a significant impact on any woman with eyes.

  Indeed, he was a great deal too sure of himself.

  She scowled and flicked a glance at the small clock on the mantelpiece. Barely ten o’clock.

  Not eleven as he’d said.

  She gritted her teeth, then swung around and went quickly to the door. If she hurried, she might be able to slip out of the back door unobserved.

  About to quit the room, she realized she’d forgotten her gloves.

  With a muttered curse, she returned to her dressing table, swept up the offending articles, then quickly and silently left the room.

  Pausing at the head of the stairs, she listened and heard Frobisher’s deep voice asking for her. Mrs. Hoyt all but fell over her toes showing him into the parlor and garrulously assuring him that—indeed!—Miss Hopkins had yet to leave the house, and that she was sure Miss Hopkins would be very pleased to meet with him.

  Aileen grimaced. In the circumstances, trying to avoid Frobisher might land her in even more difficulties. Such as explaining to Mrs. Hoyt why she didn’t want to meet with him—a man Mrs. Hoyt’s well-tuned antennae had already identified as a distinctly eligible gentleman.

  And did she really want to give Frobisher the impression she was actively avoiding him?

  On several counts, the answer was no.

  A Hopkins did not run from an obstacle, no matter how irritating.

  More, a wise lady did not run from a man of Frobisher’s ilk, especially not after an impromptu kiss of the type they’d shared the previous night. That would be akin to waving a red flag before a bull—or running from a predator naturally inclined to give chase.

  She could see no benefit in having Frobisher dogging her every step, trying to catch her.

  The notion of what he might do if he succeeded...

  As she heard Mrs. Hoyt back out of the parlor and the door click shut, then her landlady’s rushing footsteps coming up the first flight, Aileen reached the conclusion that meeting with Frobisher and deflecting whatever barrage he sent
her way was the safer, more certain, more sane and acceptable course.

  She drew in a fortifying breath, then looked down and pulled on her gloves.

  “There you are, Miss Hopkins!” Mrs. Hoyt, rosy cheeked and beaming, halted on the landing. “I was just coming to let you know you have a caller. A gentleman caller—a Captain Frobisher.” Mrs. Hoyt’s eyes grew wide. She lowered her voice. “Ever so handsome, he is.”

  Aileen summoned a smile. “Thank you. I was just on my way down.”

  Mrs. Hoyt turned and preceded her down the stairs. “I’ll just be in the kitchen should you need anything, Miss Hopkins.” Stepping off the stairs, Mrs. Hoyt abruptly halted and shot a questioning look Aileen’s way. “That is”—she lowered her voice to the merest whisper—“unless you feel the need for a chaperon? I would be happy to oblige, if you wish.”

  Aileen’s smile grew more genuine. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. Captain Frobisher is a friend of my family.”

  “Ah. I see.” Mrs. Hoyt nodded. “I’ll take myself off, then. Just ring if you wish for any refreshments.”

  Aileen watched Mrs. Hoyt bustle into the nether regions, then she turned to face the parlor door.

  After a second’s hesitation, she drew herself up, reached for the doorknob, sent the door swinging wide, and with her head high—in what her mother would have termed her galleon mode—she swept into the parlor.

  With a practiced movement, she swung around and shut the door, then, her head rising again to a distinctly challenging angle, she continued toward Frobisher. “Good morning, Mr. Frobisher. I trust I see you well?”

  He had been standing before the fireplace examining an old map mounted above it; he’d turned and watched her entrance. As she approached, he shifted to face her and gravely inclined his head. “Miss Hopkins.”

  For most of their previous exchanges, he’d been sitting. She hadn’t truly appreciated just how tall, how commanding, his physical presence was. Her brothers were tall; she was used to tall men. She just wasn’t used to men like Frobisher, who seemed to possess some uncanny knack of fixing her senses and abrading her nerves.

  That that abrasion was not unpleasurable only unsettled her all the more.

  His hair was dark brown, a touch lighter than sable, and fell in wavy locks about his head. He was clean shaven, the sharply delineated angles of his cheekbones and squared chin displayed with a certain arrogant air, a clear signal to all with eyes that he was not a man to be trifled with.

  He was dressed more conservatively than he had been last night, with a pale lightweight coat over a conventional shirt, and with a brown silk cravat knotted about his neck.

  He still looked dangerous.

  To her leaping senses, he felt dangerous.

  After last night, something primitive in her saw him as eminently desirable...

  She slammed a mental door on her intrigued impetuosity.

  She had to tilt her head still higher to keep her eyes locked with his. She halted with a safe six feet between them and opened her lips to tartly point out that he’d called an hour early.

  He took the wind from her sails with the words “My men found the slavers’ lair.”

  She stared at him. That was quite the last thing she’d expected him to say. Not that she didn’t have confidence in his men’s abilities. She simply hadn’t expected him to admit as much to her, to include her...

  He was watching her rather closely.

  Last night, she hadn’t been able to make out the color of his eyes. They were a strong, solid mid blue—rather like the man himself in their unwavering focus.

  If she read him correctly, his utterance was an olive branch of sorts.

  She could guess what he hoped to gain in return.

  As to that, she would see, but in the meantime... “Where is this lair?” She waved him to one of the well-worn armchairs facing the sofa and moved to claim the sofa herself. After gathering her skirts, she sat and looked up at him. “Is it in the slum, as you thought? The one at the end of Undoto’s street?”

  With apparently unconscious grace, he sank into the armchair and nodded. “Right in the middle of a labyrinth of tiny lanes and alleys. Unless you know exactly where it is—or are following someone who does—it would be impossible to locate.”

  Robert captured her gaze—her eyes were a bright hazel, vibrant and alive—and calmly continued, “My men have found a hide of sorts from which to keep watch. Not so close as the house directly opposite, but in the house behind that. That house possesses a ramshackle tower, and we’ve rented the room at the top. It affords us an unrestricted view of the slavers’ front door while being sufficiently distant that our observation won’t alert them, and we’re also free to come and go without risking attracting their notice.”

  She didn’t bother pretending disinterest; she leaned forward and eagerly asked, “Are there any captives there at present? Have your men seen enough to determine that?”

  “The slavers don’t appear to be holding anyone in their lair at this time.” He paused, then decided he may as well be hung for a wolf as a lamb. “My men have already been asking around—not directly, of course. But via the women the slavers rely on for cleaning and cooking, my men have established that at this moment, there are no extra captive mouths to be fed.”

  She frowned.

  Before she could make a bid to take charge of the conversation, he rolled on, “Last night, you asked what my stage—my mission’s goal—was.” Her gaze lifted to his face; its intensity assured him that his new tack of including her was precisely the right one to take. Imperturbably, he continued, “My goal is not to find the slavers’ lair. That’s merely a step along the way toward fulfilling the mission I was asked to undertake—ascertaining the location of the slavers’ camp.”

  “Their camp? In the jungle?”

  He nodded. “From what we’ve determined, the modus operandi of this group is to seize people in the settlement and take them to the lair, either to gather them together or simply to report to their base. Regardless, they wait for night before they move their captives out through the slums and into the jungle. To an established camp. From what we’ve learned, there always is such a camp—the slavers don’t deliver their captives directly from the settlement, or from wherever else they seize them, to the captives’ eventual destination, but always congregate, slavers and captives, at their camp. Subsequently, they move their captives on in larger groups to whatever enterprise—whatever owner—the captives are destined for.”

  Her frown had turned puzzled. “Why bother with a lair here as well as a camp in the jungle?”

  “My understanding is that while the locals—the inhabitants of the slums and also the local tribesmen living about the settlement—are wary of crossing the slavers and generally avoid doing so, they don’t approve of the slavers’ activities. Especially in this case, with the slavers taking Europeans from within the settlement. The locals fear the slavers, but they also fear the reactions of the British authorities if and when the slavers’ actions come to light. The locals fear that any repercussions will impact on them, too.” He lightly grimaced. “That’s probably not an unreasonable fear. Consequently, the slavers keep to themselves in the slums and only move through the settlement at night—when the authorities are essentially asleep—and in turn, the locals tolerate them, or at least don’t directly oppose them.”

  Her frown had deepened; he was visited by a ridiculous urge to reach out and, with his thumb, smooth it away.

  Her next words refocused him on his current ploy.

  “You’ve mentioned several times that numerous people—all European—have gone missing from the settlement, not just the officers whose disappearance triggered the investigation.” Her eyes refocused on his. “How many people have vanished?”

  He grimaced and admitted, “We don’t kno
w the full extent of it—not yet. We know of the four officers, but it’s certain there will be more men who’ve gone missing and who no one’s reported, and we believe that at least four young women and seventeen children of various ages have also been taken.”

  “Good Lord!” She sat back and regarded him in horrified astonishment. “How on earth could that happen?”

  In a few succinct phrases, he explained. He concluded with, “So our guess is that Lady Holbrook was instrumental—possibly via Undoto—in pointing the slavers at people she knew could be taken without causing sufficient alarm for the authorities to be alerted. She may also have played a key role in convincing her husband that there was no crime, as such, involved and therefore no need to take any action.”

  After a moment, his thorn shook her head. “This was bad enough when I thought it was only Will who had fallen foul of someone.” She studied his face, his eyes, then her own narrowed fractionally. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Because he’d realized that the only viable way to keep her safe was to keep her close. Then, when he—or more likely his men if he was dancing guard on her—located the slavers’ camp, and they were ready to leave the settlement, he had every intention of hauling her back to London with him.

  He wasn’t past kidnapping her, not in such a case.

  And it might well come to that, Hopkins that she was and with her brother among the missing.

  But of that decision, he said nothing; he wasn’t about to give her any advance notice. She was going to be difficult enough to manage as it was.

  Quite a challenge, in fact.

  In the small hours of the morning, he’d decided to view her as that—a challenge to his skills in manipulation and maneuvering. A touch of spice added to a mission that was otherwise shaping up to be rather boringly straightforward.

  He looked into her eyes and confirmed her understanding, her reading of him. He had wondered if she would have the wit to realize his present behavior didn’t fit his character. The incipient suspicion that had run beneath her simple question suggested she was well aware of the contradiction. Luckily, he had a distraction up his sleeve.